riflessi sul lago dolomitic reflections

Sometimes silence is music, and the words are her deaf echo, who runs blindly after the wind, in his wings he found comfort. But the wind refuses to be a companion, wasting the flights in dust and noise. Turns the petholine into stupid, which are a trap for empty words. And words say they are truths and looking for an echo to remember them. They scream desperately and chase the wind, ... the music has no trace, no memory.